Professor Burkle
by smolder
Summary: "her massive intellect takes their magic, this ephemeral aspect of their being, and makes it an object of science too. Shifts it into elegant equations of cause and effect, of force and speed, tracking power fluctuations and intent..."
1. prologue: not naive to what might be

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling & BtVS belongs to Joss Whedon.  
Warnings/Spoilers: Somewhat graphic cannon character death.  
A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

_

_prologue: not naive to what might be done_

Hermione ran as fast as her legs could take her.

She barrelled around the corner of the hallway, her feet almost losing traction for a moment on the old stone of Hogworts before catching herself on the wall, knocking a painting partially askew and having the occupant yell at her. She ignored it's language that was perhaps a bit too off color for a school with young children and she was rather busy internally cursing herself anyway for not being fitter, for panting already. But even as her lungs began to burn, Hermione clutched her wand tight, and squinted her eyes in determination as she ran on.

She had to get to the classroom on the corner of the Fourth Floor. It was where the new Professor, who had become her favorite teacher (_ever, really_) - taught (_and she was pretty sure lived as well_) and with the chaos going on she would be in danger.

The thought had crossed her mind while keeping watch on Professor Snape's door with Luna. And when she had shared her concern with the other girl, the Ravenclaw had encouraged her to leave her alone to watch and go tell the woman what was going on. And with the potion in both of their veins, Hermione thought the idea and advice must be sound.

Must be _lucky._

Finally, she reached the door in question – and not thinking about propriety at a time like this, she burst through.

And Ms. Burkle jumped, spinning around from where she had been writing on her special dry erase board walls, holding a marker tight and staring at her with wide startled eyes, her whole body tense – then again this was her response whenever someone opened the door at all, or made a noise unexpectedly. It was as if the sound itself was an attack to her (_or the fated precursor to one, she thought not for the first time_).

"Professor," Hermione panted, holding onto the door frame as she caught her breath, "we're under attack. _Death Eaters_," she clarified, knowing this woman wasn't totally used to the Wizarding World yet. That was what worried her - it was far too well known that Ms. Burkle wasn't Pure Blood, Half-Blood, or even Muggle-Born. For all of her vast knowledge and ability to break down spells into their component parts, she was completely Muggle. And Hermione was not naive to what might be done to the delicate woman simply to make a point. (_Had not been so for many years now._)

But instead of panicking, her teacher's body seemed to relax at the threat. "Ah," she murmured, capping her marker slowly. "Thought it woulda happened earlier, really," her lips quirked a bit.

"Ms. Burkle," Hermione said, her voice rising now, feeling incredibly stressed, "I am _not joking_ about this."

"I didn't think you were," her Professor looked back over at her, frowning. "Now give me a moment, please?" Then she walked towards her large desk, sat down, took off her glasses and put both them and her marker carefully in a drawer. Once that task was done, and the drawer was shut again, she closed her eyes and said quietly, almost as if to herself, "Illyria, I'm in danger. Do you want to handle this one or should I...?" then she snorted. "Thought so."

"Professor," Hermione repeated, worried for the woman's sanity. It was rather an open secret that it was never a truly stable thing even at the best of times.

But then - then she began to change. _Blue_. The color bleeding through her brown hair, thick lines of the bright shade across her forehead, and through her suddenly paler skin as well. And when her eyes snapped open they were no longer the warm brown Hermione knew, they were a cold, flat, electric blue that made the girl automatically take back a step and grip her wand tighter.

The young witch was barely given a glance though, before those eyes glided down Ms. Burkle's body, and then the plain skirt and floral shirt that she had been wearing shifted into a red leather armor – a dark shade that made her shiver, made her think of blood.

"Who..._what_ are you?" Hermione managed to get out, wondering if a much larger threat than Voldemort was now before her. As uneasy in her lack of knowledge of this being than a direct attack.

It tilted it's head in a birdlike manner, regarding her before answering in a voice distinctly different from her teacher's, "I am the God-King Illyria."

"What have you done with Professor Burkle?" she asked uneasily.

"Winifred Burkle alerted me to danger imminent to her shell and I am agreeable to violence. As her soul is linked to my essence, it was simple for us to switch. Space and time are negligible to one such a I," the response was prompt, if bored as she glanced around the room.

"Where is she?" Hermione insisted, wanting to know this, have at least some assurance of Ms. Burkle's safety despite all of the confusing information she was being given.

"Cleveland. My pet, Spike was attempting to teach me the human game poker. I believe Winifred Burkle will be better suited to this." She seemed to consider something, "Perhaps she will conquer her opponents as well, this day, and win against the Slayer who brought the spear for betting. I wish to do much violence with that spear."

"Now, Witch," the blue eyes came back to rest upon Hermione as the God-King stood, and it was hard not to gasp at the weight of them. "Where are those who would attack my former shell's chosen dwelling place?"


	2. chapter one: sharp hard determination

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling & BtVS belongs to Joss Whedon.  
Warnings/Spoilers: Somewhat graphic cannon character death.  
A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

_

_chapter one: sharp hard determination to survive_

one year previously

Willow knows now that her relationship with Kennedy was over from the moment the other girl stared at her with wide eyes and said, "You're a Goddess."

She hadn't been comfortable with the amount of magic she could wield then (_often wasn't even now_) and so had responded flippantly in the moment. All of the Scoobies had honed the skill of humor in the face of unease, it was a useful weapon to have in ones back pocket.

It was only later that she realized that Kennedy didn't have that same mindset, that she hadn't been kidding. As days went by and that unease grew, curling tightly in her stomach when that girl that had pursued her with both sweetness and relentlessness now looked upon her with awe.

Willow didn't want _awe_. She didn't want a relationship based upon worship, there was no equality in that.

Months later she stands in an alleyway in L.A., in front of another who has known what it is like to be worshiped. They are both covered in demon blood and blue eyes in a body she remembers garbed rather differently, watch her carefully.

They can both feel the other's' power, with this beings' cut down harshly to fit within the confines of her form, and her own freely flowing as it curls and moves playfully from the Earth into herself and back again (_brushing everything and everyone in her environment as it does, both greeting and warning_).

As the Battle winds down, she sends a few Slayers off to the hospital with a partially (magically) healed Gunn, and the rest back to the Council. She then helps two vampires and a God King make their way to the Hyperion to patch up.

She talks to Angel first and he is perhaps happier than he should be to shift blame onto Giles. But she never did get his call when Fred first got sick - so, she is rather upset with her father-figure at the moment as well too, knows how the others will feel. (_And she is well aware that Angel has always had a hard time staying angry with her. After all she did give him back his soul twice._)

She then hugs Spike tightly, uncaring of the blood on them both, and isn't too surprised when he holds her back just as hard, burying his head in her neck. He has always been tactile with those he was fond of (that had included Dawn, Tara, and her - Buffy had been an entirely different category). And after both being a ghost apparently and having member of his new crew dying - well, Willow is more than willing to supply this bit of comfort.

Eventually, she comes around to the being who has sadness, anger, and confusion wafting around her, despite her blank face. "May we talk?" she asks, tilting her head towards the stairs and the blue woman gave a nod of acquiescence.

Once she had closed the door to one of the rooms she heard Illyria hiss from where she stood in the center, staring around at the furniture. "I should not feel this way. Simply because this was the shells former dwelling place should not have meaning to me."

Willow had not chosen this room specifically, only picked one that was not in disrepair. But this still provided her with a segue that she was more than willing to use. She did not offer empty words of platitude, or disregard the feelings she could sense clearly. Instead, Willow agreed, "No, no, you shouldn't."

The God-King turned abruptly to face her and began to stalk towards her - there is no other term for the way she approached. "What do you know, Witch?" and the last is said almost like a title - not like she spits human or vampire, but oddly respectful.

And so Willow treats her the same.

"You've felt her haven't you?" she asked compassionately, sees the confusion instantly form on the usually stoic face before she can hide it.

"I believed it only memories - electrical impulses of the brain left over from the shell," the azure dipped being before her said with calmness bellied by the tauntness of her body.

"And the emotions?" Willow pressed on - sure of what she knew, what she felt. And solid enough in her magic to follow these insights.

"None of what I felt has been real, has been _mine_?" the other responded in a voice colder than anything Willow has heard yet, turning away from her.

But the witch didn't let it deter her, "Some of it is you, some of it is her," she answered truthfully. The head whipped back to her. "May I show you God-King?" she asked formally, in the manner she had previously been addressed.

Illyria tilted her head down in a slight nod and Willow approached further until she was right in front of the other being, then lying a hand on her armored chest, she breathed in and out. She let her magic flow more solidly around her for a moment, then move purposefully through the body in front of her searching until, ever so gently, it held the bits of soul that she had felt (_all in so many separate parts at the moment she noted worriedly to herself_).

"Do you see?" she asked looking up, and nearly jumped to see those electric blue eyes staring straight at her.

"The pain is bearable," Illyria said quietly, seemingly to herself, then blinked, her countenance hardening. "You wish to retrieve Fred Burkle. I will not die on her behalf."

Willow knew how strong Illyria was - how fast, but it was not just her magic that caused her to lack fear in this moment. It was understanding, empathy. (_And the God-king was oddly like Fred in this, the sharp hard determination to survive - wondered for a moment if their similarities at core nature might be why they were able to co-exist at all._)

She was silent for a prolonged moment and when she spoke it was quiet and sad. "There are people I have been close to throughout my life - some hold more of my heart, my soul, than others. But many have died," she looked down for a moment and thought of Jesse, of Joyce, of _Tara_.

"Spike and Angel hold pieces of me," Willow continued, knowing the other would have been able to sense the depth of her grief, in the air. "Fred was important to them," she looked back up into the very woman's face but with different eyes, different control of her body, "but you have become so as well. I would not cause everyone more loss, when it is something we have all known so well, so deeply and so often. I only ask of you your help to reconstruct the pieces of her soul and either duplicate this body - or if that proves impossible, to help her truly pass on."


	3. chapter two: break it all down

_Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling & BtVS belongs to Joss Whedon.  
Warnings/Spoilers: Somewhat graphic cannon character death.  
A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading._

_chapter two: break it all down into its components_

6 months before the attack

It did not take long for Hermione to figure out just _why_ Professor Burkle was there - and be grateful for it. For her very presence was an utter revelation, as mind altering for her as learning that magic was real. Because this woman was _Muggle_ \- a fact that she didn't try to hide, was never ashamed of. Yet despite her lack of it, Professor Burkle's understanding of witchcraft was astounding.

She was a scientist - and many of the purebloods dismissed her as only being such, _just some Muggle scientist_ \- but what they don't let themselves see is how she uses this knowledge. How her massive intellect takes their magic, this ephemeral aspect of their being, and _makes_ it an object of science too. Shifts it into elegant equations of cause and effect, of force and speed, tracking power fluctuations and intent, with her ever present brightly colored markers, across the dry erase board.

The beauty of it, of this ability that Hermione had never known was possible, takes her breath away. Is as amazing to her as the very ability to do the magic itself. Because Ms. Burkle _understands_ it in a way that all those witches and wizards, who swish and flick, never will. She watches their spells and sees the numbers, can break it all down into its components.

And from there she can change it.

_Spell Deconstruction and Reconstruction_. She fondly traces the neat writing printed out on the front of her notebook in the now familiar handwriting. That was the official name of her independent study with the Texan professor.

Hermione had to work hard to get into her class - competing with others in many years interested in the same topic. After the announcement of the American's arrival and then the flyer that went up of what she was offering to teach...well, it wasn't quite a stampede but she is still surprised at the variety of people who applied. And honestly a bit embarrassed at her surprise of those that were accepted.

After his essay and interview won him placement, Percy proudly went to the delicate woman for Graphing Magical Patterns and despite teasing from his brothers at how boring the topic was, she has never seen him so engaged. Both Padma and Parvati jointly put forward their claim for Ritual Magic beating out many others (_across all four Houses in fact, she heard later_) - and becoming the only class of more than one student. But as they have said to any who ask, you need at least three for most important things of that nature.

Luna's essay was not anything offered on the list provided on all the bulletin boards, but instead a highly detailed taxonomy of the creatures she had always claimed to see (_and Hermione had previously thought to be figmints of her imagination_). She had come out of her interview with an air of deep satisfaction and a class title of Demon Lore. Seamus was another who created his own class. She has no idea what his essay or interview was about, to be honest, only that his study ended up being called Constructing Weapons from Available Materials and he thrived with the creativity and engineering aspects of it that were not truly available to him in any other class at Hogworts.

There are more - about a dozen more she thinks, embarrassed again, this time at her lack of knowledge of the other Houses when the students aren't involved with DA. Everyone goes up to her corner office on the Fourth Floor usually twice a week, more if you were working on an urgent project, for two or three hours or so of one-on-one teaching. And what they learned was _extraordinary_, opened their minds so much. At least it did for Hermione and those she has spoken to in her House.

And the woman is Muggle - a genius Muggle, yes - but a Muggle all the same. There is something empowering about that, something she thinks Dumbledore did rather intentionally in hiring Professor Burkle. Because any who are chosen for her class, any who _experience_ Winifred Burkle, cannot come away thinking Muggles are inferior.

But Hermione must admit that there _is_ something wrong with her - no, not wrong, something _damaged_ about her. It is almost painful to think the word, her mind tries to shy away because she has become so very fond - and so very _protective_ \- of this woman in such a short time. (_She does not believe she would ever say it out loud even if it is undoubtedly true, would probably be angered if anyone else dared to._) Not her intellect - perhaps not her mind - but Professor Burkle's spirit? Yes, that.

There is something deeply hurt there. _Damaged_. She hates the word but it fits to well.

Fits the way she looks over uneasily every time the door is opened, her whole body tensing. The way she is obviously uncomfortable to even pass by groups in the hall, stays in her rooms almost constantly. How her eyes skitter up and away from the color blue - so much so that the Ravenclaw students have stopped wearing their ties to her class and no one mentions it.

The protective barrier the other Professors have made around her, with both their words and their wards. The _other_ wards from an unknown caster that (_she has now learned to see_) with far stronger magics than even that of Hogworts that surround her classroom, that curl around her very being.

_Damaged_, Hermione frowns down at her books as she waits outside the classroom. She is glad beyond belief that Winifred Burkle is here, to teach and be an example. But it also hurts her in some inexplicable way that she exists - or well, that she exists _like this_, not happy and whole. That here experiences as a Muggle living amongst and learning about magic (_even if not the Wizarding sort of magic_) have made her like this.

She does not know the Professor's past, does not think it is something she can ask, _could_ ever ask - but especially not now, not when the woman in question is so obviously pained, so obviously here to forget. But something hurt her (_many many many things hurt her in all probability_) - pressed down again and again until cracks became breaks and the damage was eventually simply too great to heal easily anymore.

Hermione wonders if this all hurts her so much to witness in a more personal manner, because she has already experienced so much in her relatively short years. And if, in the end, her intelligence can not save her from herself...

The door in front of her opens and the twins exit looking pensive and pleased as they sort through their notes. Padma gives her a nod in greeting as they pass since her sister is too engrossed in whatever she is reading.

Hermione sighs and tries to shake off her mood, knocking lightly before entering, and trying not to wince when Professor Burkle flinches anyway and smiles apologetically afterwards at her own reaction.


	4. chapter three: fill the open spaces

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling & BtVS belongs to Joss Whedon.  
Warnings/Spoilers: Somewhat graphic cannon character death.  
A/N: Reviews are Good. This has been a subtle hint from the author - Please return to your regularly scheduled reading.

_chapter three: fill the open spaces_

10 months before the attack

It is peaceful in the greenhouse Xander has built for her, they are both calmed by the feel of the plantlife to their senses - the Song of the Green, as the God King calls it and Willow must agree that it is fitting. At first, she almost expected that their daily work here would become tense or contentious but it never has. Hard, yes - sometimes terribly disappointing and melancholy but that is only natural, given what they are doing, and neither really needs to speak these emotions, can feel (_or taste in Illyria's case_) them in the air.

Perhaps that is why the unbroken quiet is not unbearable - because it is not truly silence, the are simply not speaking with words. Willow grew up feeling she had to fill the open spaces left (_where uncaring parents and dead friends should be_) with her babble, but the spaces here are already filled with the contented murmur around her of leaves sunning themselves, slowly - ever so slowly - turning to get more light. It is honestly a relief not to have to speak.

But it _was_ from talking to Spike and Angel before they left and seeing how she has reacted to others here at the New Watcher's Council, that Willow knows Illyria is different with her than the others. She is not sure if it is because of their common goal or simply a recognition of her power (_is pretty sure it is the power thing, a being that prefers to be called by their title seems the type to honor strength above little else_).

She _does_ know that the God-King relaxes with her in this refuge of hers' on the grounds, a cocoon of glass windows, trapped warmth, her own magic and simply pure growing things. There is an odd amount of trust this shows, and she does not take it lightly.

Then again, the other Scoobies are not exactly against her, against _them,_ in this project of theirs. There is a great deal of anger at Giles at the moment over leaving Fred to her fate the way he did over his old hurts with Angel (over never telling Willow to even give her a choice). They understand not being able to let go of certain hurts that are close to your heart but to knowingly allow another to be harmed as collateral damage? That is where there anger sits hard and heavy - honestly where the majority of their support comes from, in opposition to that wrong already done by one of their own.

Willing to back her in almost anything that might help _fix this_. What she does not say is that it cannot be truly fixed - knows that is already something they are all well aware of. They have been dealing in souls since they were in High School, after all. Buffy's hazel eyes in particular are much too troubled, much too old - too haunted - for her still young face when they talk of Fred's condition and what she will attempt to do.

And it is true, she is used to working with souls - but Angel's little curse was simple compared to this. Such intricate work of holding each little scrap in the equivalent to a bubble of her magic - making sure no part of her brushes against it during this process. For it is so delicate, it's edges so hazy and indistinct, that her power might accidentally bleed into in some way, that these bits of Fred would become FredWillowEarth.

Because, Willow too, was not truly just herself alone anymore, had not been since that day on a hill in Sunnydale when the world did not end, was solidified as such a being when she asked a group of young women if they wanted to be strong.

_Goddess_ a part of her deep down whispers and she ignores it with long practice. Is not sure when she will be ready to listen to it. (_Is distantly terrified that she can wait as long as she needs - that it has far more patience than she could ever dream too. And it will wait for her. That she has plenty of time now - time until the very Earth stops spinning._)

And first she must find them. She takes her time as she collects each piece while the God-King sits still in front of her cross legged form with inhuman stillness, back straight and eyes always open - and she has gotten used to the bright blue stare after weeks of their work together. It is always a slow slow search in the seemingly vast expanse of metaphysical universe she has come to recognize as _Illyria_ until she finds a pulse of Fred amongst it (_clutching on to existence, human and determined and alive alive alive. I'm still here. I'm alive; please please don't leave me alone in the dark_) - it jumps into space right above her cupped hand, blinking feeble hazy golden light like a flashlight about to go out before returning to the other beings armored chest as she brings it together to join the whole - or what she is attempting to form as a whole.

The space is walled off for now inside of Illyria because these parts of Fred are not yet (_might never be, she worries_) strong enough to support itself within an Orb of Thelusa. Neither have mentioned this though, both just agree that it is safer, with Illyria to act as guard for the steadily growing glow of Fred, to not chance her being destroyed in an outside vessel.

There is another problem though, that as she has continued to gently collect these shards of soul, she has come to the sad conclusion that there is simply _not enough_ left to form a complete whole of _all Fred_ \- large parts have either blended with the God-King or twirled so tightly around her essence of blue power that to untangle them would be painful, lose something on both sides.

So, with a sigh, Willow moves on whenever she encounters these spots, must leave these aspects that connect the two. That will keep them _always_ intertwined on this level of soul and magics she believes, honestly. And the witch does not know how that will affect human and God-King in the long run. The pluses and the minuses, the abilities and weaknesses, are things they are going to have to work out together or be blindsided by when they pop up eventually.

There is also the fact that some parts, Willow is afraid have been destroyed beyond her ability to fix - to even find _traces_ of. Because even though Fred wasn't burnt up in the God-King's resurrection, like Angel's team had been told by Wolf, Ram & Hart, her soul _had_ been shattered by it.

(_Spun glass dropped from a great height upon a marble floor._ _Sharp glittering shards showering out into a great vast - seemingly eternity of - blue_.)

So, the pieces are still mostly here but they are _all_ small - often very small - pieces.

And she is only hoping that time will allow Fred's soul to heal what she cannot mend with her inexpert piecing together - she knows that this is possible in small matters but is not sure if it can work with such extensive gaping wounds,_ holes in her very being_, that Fred will have even when she is done. But Willow simply does not know what else to do.

(_She does know that she can not just let her die, let her pass on to whatever afterlife awaits - because every single scrap of the scientist's soul that is able to practically screams it's wish to survive._)


End file.
